Tom Hitt is writing as if it doesn't matter.

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So, This Is Aging

So, this is aging. This is the not-so-sorry ending. I recall my mother, she and I seated at the kitchen table. She is examining my hands, comparing my hand to hers. Tracing the length of my fingers she comments on the elegance; the narrow tapers, the fine strong nails. The reach that I have inherited from her own graceful fingers. I see for the first time the wrinkles and creases upon her hands. Healthy, well veined hands, taken care of. “I am the product of this household” I think, “a product of this woman”. All innocent and observational, we two seated at the most familiar of places in our home. This kitchen, this sunshine sneaking through the eastern facing window, mom’s jewelry shining. I am in stasis. I know this important and I don’t know why.

This was to be a cement-edged memory for me, soft within but hard on the outside. Hard to contain that memory, that breeze that came into the window. We both were vulnerable, and it was my mother who allowed that breeze to become visceral and tangible for me. I knew it was important and I didn’t know why.

Now as I type I look down upon my own mother’s hands, and everything seems clear to me. I’m not sad, certainly not nostalgic.